


Just For Tonight, This Is All That Matters

by snowdropintheheart



Series: Omegle Struggles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And in love, Angst, Anxiety, BAMF John, Caring John, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drug Addiction, Drunk Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Infidelity, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, In a way, M/M, Omegle Roleplay, Panic Attacks, Pining Sherlock, Protective John, Self-Hatred, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Texting, They are desperate, so many angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8422276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdropintheheart/pseuds/snowdropintheheart
Summary: It all started with one text:"I don't feel okay, John."
-Based on my starter, an Omegle roleplay. No beta or editing so far.Enjoy.





	

_I don't feel okay, John. SH_

**Why? What's going on? JW**

_I need cocaine. SH_

**No, you don't. Don't do anything stupid, please. JW**   
**Do you want me to come over for the evening? Mary's out at Janine's anyway. JW**

_She will go mad, if she finds out. SH_

**Of course she won't. I'm not her puppy. JW**

_She will, and it's not about being her pet or not. She obviously hates it when you mention 221B. SH_

**She gets annoyed, sure, but that doesn't mean I have to ask her permission. If you need me, I'll come. JW**   
**Why are you so worried about Mary's opinion anyway? I told you nothing would change after I got married, and I'm a man of my word. JW**

_Things are already changed, John. SH_

**Yes, I know. But I'm here for you. Always. JW**   
**Now, do you want me to come over, yes or no? JW**

_Fine. SH_  
 _Be quick. SH_  
[10 minutes later] _I can't breathe, John. SH_

**Calm down. I'm on my way. Ten minutes. JW**   
**Focus on breathing, Sherlock. Close your eyes, steady your heartbeat. I'm almost there. JW**

_What would you do if I overdosed? SH_   
_Because I can, you know, I have enough amount to do it. SH_

**No. No, stop, please. I don't know what I'd do. I've already buried you once, I'm not sure I can do it again. Please, Sherlock, don't. JW**

_I can't stop thinking how easy it would be. SH_   
_You'd be so much better, John. SH_

**No, you dumb fuck. I'd be lost without you. You're not thinking straight. Now, listen, my cab's about to pull over. Don't move. JW**

_I can't. SH_   
_I might or might not be drunk. SH_

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ…" John sighed and stormed out of the vehicle, payed his cabbie and ran. It was a little reassuring to know that Sherlock was being so desperate partially because of the drinking. And that he couldn't move or really do anything really fucking idiotic. He climbed up the stairs without saying hello to Mrs Hudson and entered the living room to find Sherlock slumped on the sofa. He came closer and squatted next to him to check on his reflexes, make sure he hadn't taken anything other than alcohol. "You son of a bitch," he hissed, half-furious and half-terrified. "You almost gave me a heart attack. How are you feeling? How much did you drink?"

Sherlock was laying on the couch, he was almost feeling paralyzed. He'd been wearing the same t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and his blue dressing gown for the last week. It started with usual sulking, then a strong chest pain, rapid breath - panic attack, obviously. He ran to his room and find the cocaine and needle in his stash. He spent four days thinking about using it or not, then he settled on drinking - like the way John would do. He lost the count long time ago and now here he was, texting John desperately, aching for his existence.   
He opened his eyes slowly as he heard John's voice. "Jo-hn?" he answered, with a sing-like voice, going between laughing and sobbing a couple times. He tried to get up but failed. "Sorry." he murmured as he buried his face to the Union Jack pillow.

"Oh, God," John whispered. It was Harry all over again, somehow, and he hated that feeling. He looked around. There were empty bottles of cheap wine and vodka in the kitchen, and some others laying on the ground of the living room. It was probable that Mrs H wasn't allowed to come upstairs anymore. "Okay, come here," he decided and took Sherlock around the waist. He pulled him up and took him to the bathroom, being careful to not drop him on the floor. He sat him in the bath, took off his dressing gown. "You're going to hate me for this, but you're not leaving me a choice, I'm afraid," he said and and turned on the shower, ice-cold temperature. He needed Sherlock to be kind of clear for now, to understand what was going on and how to stop it. And with the fright he just had, he didn't have any patience left.

"Wait-what are you doin'?" Sherlock babbled as John took him to the bathroom, John, sweet, strong John Watson. John, who always busy with dealing with his drunk sister, assassin wife and junkie best friend, how Sherlock loved him. He dropped all of his weight on John, because he was in no state to move. It was like almost ten years ago, when Mycroft found him after another session of getting high. He giggled, God, he was miserable. He sat like a child in the bath. "I can't hate youu, Joohn. Because I-" Hell, it was cold. Even with his current state of mind, he knew that John wouldn't do anything to harm him, physically at least, but it was cold. Freezing. His teeth were bumping each other. "Stop it." he cried, wrapping his arms around himself.

John turned down the shower and let Sherlock breath for a while. He narrowed his gaze, and turned the shower back on, pretending it was to be sure Sherlock would be less sozzled. In reality it was just a cruel gesture, a little revenge for making him worry so much, and he stopped the freezing water just a few seconds after. He then took a towel and sat next to Sherlock again, dried his hair and face. "Better now?" he asked, and his tone was very cold too. He knew he should have been patient. He would have been with anyone else. But he couldn't get out of his mind what Sherlock had said, about the overdose. This was just not acceptable, and left an awful knot stuck in his stomach.

Sherlock shook as a gesture of he was getting better. John's voice was harsh but his movement while he was drying Sherlock was still gentle, it took an impossible effort to not to bury his head to his neck, begging for being held. He shouldn't have mentioned the cocaine, he reminded bitterly, John was senstive about Sherlock's addiction but the damage was done. "I wasn't... going to. I wanted. But I wouldn't." he murmured, hoping John would understand.

John's gaze softened just slightly, the anger leaving place to a contained but devastating sadness. He cleared his throat and removed the towel, then put a hand on Sherlock's cheek to inspect his eyes. "Hm," he just answered. "I'm going to fetch you some clean clothes." He helped him get up and wrapped him in a bigger, dry towel. "Get these off," he ordered and left to Sherlock's room. He took his time, partially to let Sherlock get undressed, and also to look for the drugs. They weren't here, of if they were, Sherlock had hidden them brilliantly of course. He sighed and opted for some random pair of pants, grey pajama bottoms and a tank top, and threw them through the ajar bathroom door without looking inside. He then decided to go get rid of the wine bottles and tidy the apartment. He was still upset and wanted to leave Sherlock alone until he'd fully come back to his sense, and wandering around 221b seemed to be the only thing to calm himself down right now.

Sherlock barely stood up and got rid of his wet clothes, then he took the clothes John just gave him, the knowladge of John went through his wardrobe and chose these was left a pleasant feeling at the bottom of his stomach. He dressed as fast as he could, still his movements were painfully slow. He kicked his wet clothes aside and left the bathroom, but it was really hard to steady himself, his legs were trembling, but his mind was clearer. He'd always been a lightweight, he didn't even remember what he thought or did after his first bottle - probably continued drinking, judging by the state of the floors and different kinds of bottles around. He found John wandering around, cleaning the mess he made the last couple days. Always tries to fix things, Sherlock thought to himself. The man had a strange attachment with broken things, maybe it was because he was equally broken. Sherlock stood there, leaning the wall, watching him.

John ignored Sherlock watching him for a while. Tried to ignore the fact that he seemed so weak, trembling like a leaf. Or that he had missed him so much these past few weeks, these past few months. Always, to be honest. Every second he wasn't by his side. John threw the last bottle to the bin and passed in front of the detective again. This time he stood there and looked at him intensely, eyebrows frowned, expression closed. Then broke the silence. "Are you going to apologize at some point?" he asked. "Or to at least explain what's going on? Because you need a damn good reason for making me re-live so many bad memories at once, Sherlock." Because between Harry and the Fall, this evening seemed a lot like a bad dream.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock simply said, because he knew that what he did was wrong, he managed to hurt John somehow, again. There were lots of things to say, so many things to confess, review, apologize. "I'm... experiencing. Things. After Magnussen. Um. Panic attacks. Sort of." God, why was it so hard to tell? Well, the answer was clear, because they never did _that_. Talking. They weren't that kind of men, they had a way to understand each other, used to have, at least. Now they were almost two strangers and somethings should have been said. "It was... too much. I couldn't-" He stopped. It wasn't working. "It won't happen again." he said with a more steady voice.

John looked at him silently, letting him speak, taking it all in. He seemed so small, the big Sherlock Holmes, now. Even skinnier than usual. And shaking, stuttering. Scared. Sad. Why? John had missed so many things since Mary, since Sherlock's return. Because of this new beginning of his, this instinct to get out, to have a normal life, to run away. Why had he run away? Why did he leave his best friend like this, that man that had been so important to him, that still was at this very moment? He clenched his fists, trying to still be angry. He couldn't. "Come here," he asked and walked towards Sherlock himself. It was so easy to take him in his arms and he understood he should have done it far sooner. "Talk to me," he whispered. He wanted to know everything, to share Sherlock's emotions again, even if that meant knowing his distress. He had to be there. He had to make up for his absence.

Sherlock watched John's anger disappearing step by step, it was awfully like watching a mountain collapsing. Because he was right. He had every right to be angry, leave, never want to see Sherlock again. But there he was, looking at Sherlock again, really looking at him, soft and gentle. The feeling of relief filled his chest, it was still John, who shot a man to save his life in the very first evening they had together, who was always there, ups and downs. He couldn't think anything to do when John said "Come here." and decided to take in his arms. It took all the force Sherlock had to prevent himself from sobbing instantly, but it was... _"John._ " John, John, John... Tears started to fall from his cheeks silently, he wrapped his arms around John back, buried his face to his shoulder, the shoulder which carries a bullet hole, which resulted John coming back to England and finding Sherlock. Sherlock worshipped this man, and every detail of him. "I..."

"It's okay," John kept speaking softly, almost like they could be heard. He felt Sherlock's body trembling from sobs between his arms, held tighter around his waist. He closed his eyes, face nuzzling against the skin of his neck, and rubbed the man's back softly, trying to sooth him slowly. "It's alright. You've been through so much already. You're brave, you're strong. You're going to get through this." The smell that was surrounding John was so insanely sweet and perfect he could have got high on it, he thought for a split second. There was this temptation that always happened with Sherlock, to put a kiss on this soft white skin, but he didn't. "Talk to me, please," he encouraged him in a murmur close to his ear. "I want to be here for you. I want to make it up to you for leaving, for being a coward. Let me help." He contained the tears that were close to come out, frowning and keeping it all in. It was Sherlock's turn to have a meltdown, not his.

For a second, Sherlock thought it couldn't be real. Being in John's arms, soft words whispering into his ear, that was a kind of gentleness he wasn't familiar of. Maybe it was one of those drug induced hallucinations, the kind of he had in that filthy drug den. It seemed ages ago, but it was... real. This. _John_. He kept crying silenty, the last time he cried was when the Redbeard died - and he was feeling like that, again. A 10 year old boy, who lost his best friend.   
But John was more. Always been.   
He wanted to talk, expose himself, laying all of his secrets. Right now and right here. But then again, there were too much. So many things unspoken. So he chose the most simple sentence, "I need you, John." Both the reason and the consequence. It wasn't just about confessing it to John, he was also accepting a truth he chose to ignore for years.

Maybe there was a tear that escaped his eyes at Sherlock's sentence. He could feel it roll on his cheek and it burned, but he swallowed thickly to avoid any other. He needed to stay in control. If he started to let his feelings speak for himself right now, he'd regret it, he knew. So instead he ran a hand in Sherlock's still damp hair, brushed under his ear with his thumb. "I need you too," he answered. "And I'm not leaving you. Not really, not ever. We'll find something, a way to keep on working together, on seeing each other regularly. Please, never hesitate to call me, to talk. Never think you don't have your place in my life. I'm not abandoning you." He tried to find out how much he was lying right now. He was being honest in the way that it was what he wanted. If he could, he'd still live with Sherlock. In an ideal world, he wouldn't have to choose between him and his family. But calling and talking over the phone was not enough, he knew. And hoping that Mary would stop being jealous was also a dream. But he pulled away from the hug a little bit, just to face Sherlock and attempt a smile, and wipe the detective's tears away. "I'm not leaving you alone," he promised.

Sherlock wanted to believe him. Even though his mind, his sharp logic, was telling him not to, his heart wanted to. _His heart_...   
"I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."  
Moriarty kept his word, in a way. Sherlock could feel his heart burning since he came back from death. "Okay." he answered John, they both knew it was a promise that was made to be broken, but they needed it. Sherlock was well aware he couldn't compete with what John was going to have, a real family. A child. The thought was alone enough to hurt the place in his chest, where Mary put a bullet months ago. He never gave a thought about symbolism before, but he could remember, when he was laying on the cold ground, Mycroft told him to find something... would comfort him. And he went for John, only to find Mary in her wedding dress, shooting at him again.   
He slowly reached for John, brushing the escaped tears from his cheek with his fingertips. "Thank you."  
  
John smiled. Kind of a nervous, broken, forced smile, coming with a huffed laugh. He nodded to comfort himself in this stupid promise, even if he knew Sherlock didn't believe it either. The fingers on his cheek made him close his eyes again and he rested their foreheads together, hands still cupping his friend's face, and he focused on his own breathing, trying to get a grip on himself. His lips parted, he wanted to say something. Anything. Anything to stay in this embrace a little while longer, to make this moment more real. Because he knew once they'd leave each other, it would be so difficult to come back to this, maybe impossible. To open up again, to expose themselves to each other. There was something they were keeping silent, and it was so obvious. The elephant in the room. But he couldn't say it, he would never have a chance to express it again. That thought alone made him wince and drove him back close to tears, but he exhaled instead : "Sherlock," he said so quietly it was almost inaudible. Like a desperate little cry. Then he shifted his head in the slightest, just enough for their noses to brush, and spoke again, feeling Sherlock's breath against his own: "I'm always here. I never left." In his dreams, in his heart, in the pain of his leg and shoulder and guts, he was craving 221b and this life. He knew he could never escape.  
  
It was close, so close. _Too close._ Sherlock had just had a cold shower, but then, the alcohol was still in his system, making him more open, weaker. He inhaled John's breath, scent, and he was lost. "I'm yours. Do you know that?" he wanted to ask, it was like a physical law of universe, John Watson owned Sherlock Holmes, from the very first night of their friendship. Sherlock wanted to take a step closer, press his lips onto John's, collide their bodies together, being one to never to be seperated again. He knew it wasn't possible to live without John, but he also knew better than to be selfish, to ask him to stay, to ask him for /more/. Still he was drunk, and very much close to the man he was in love with. He slowly reached for John, cupping his cheeks back, repeating his promises in his mind over and over again. He brought their faces even closer, but couldn't dare to close the distance completely, despite what John believed, and Sherlock was grateful for it, but he never claimed to be a brave man. Bravery was belong to John. The center of his solar system, his whole universe. There could be endless numbers of galaxies, Sherlock couldn't even remember one of them, it was relevant, Sherlock wouldn't care anything but John Watson.  
"You're here."  
  
Oh, the pain. The pain and the joy. It all came mixed together crushing John's heart in his chest, and he shed more tears, and he smiled. Yes. Yes, he was here. He was home. God, if only he could stay home. The hand on his cheek was burning, the deep purr of Sherlock's voice in his ear could have driven him crazy, and it all became so easy. So easily destructive and sweet, to kiss him.   
He needed nothing. Not even a step, an effort. Just to move his chin, and his lips were here. He had watched them, wanted to touch them, heard them speak, but had only dreamed to taste them, and Jesus, it was beyond everything he could imagine. How soft and barely salty they were, these curved lips under the tip of his tongue, and it was so unique, such a fragile moment that could break as if they were made of glass. He kissed Sherlock gently, so gently and silently as if someone could hear them, as if Sherlock could shake or cry or run away again. John breathed out through his nose, maybe he moaned a bit because his sobs were still locked up in his throat. He ran his hands to Sherlock's waist to hug him again, to hold him close. No, this was theirs. Just theirs. There was no way he would allow any of this to go away.  
  
John was going to kill him.  
Sherlock always thought it would be a bullet in his heart that would do it, well, it did happen before, in a way, but no. It was going to be John Watson's gentleness that would kill him.   
It would be the best way to die Sherlock could imagine. He wrapped his arms tightly around John and melted. It was the most accurate choice of verb, melting. He moved his lips weekly, but passionetely, John's lips were rough, a contrast of his. He never wanted to disappear so much. It was a familiar feeling for him to stop his existence, but this, this was different. He wanted to exist, for John, for the sake of him, but as a part of him, in him. He parted his lips slowly, let John in. He couldn't possibly know that this kind of happiness existed, a kind of happiness that would leave a person in tears, sobbing, begging for more.  It was like something sacred, something to be kept and never let go. His mind was still unstable, his sight was blurry, but there was only thing that was clear: John. _His John._  
  
How could Sherlock never stop being so wonderful? Being beautiful, full of wit, the most brilliant mind of this age, and still so sensitive and expressive. More human than anyone John knew in the strokes of his lips and tongue, in the way he breathed shallowly and held him like he was the most precious thing in the world. And how lucky he was, tiny, insignificant doctor Watson, to have met him, to have become his friend, and his… His…  
He could be his lover. He could be his. He wouldn't complain. Even if that meant keeping it secret, or feeling trapped, or dreaming about it day and night, he wanted it. He had always wanted it, even when he had thought Sherlock couldn't be interested in him, even when he had gotten married. Married?   
  
_Mary.  
_  
John parted their lips and gasped. He took a few quick breathes in, opened his eyes. He gathered all the strength he had in him to not completely panic or snap. Oh God. Oh God. What was happening? "I… I…" he stuttered. He replayed in his mind all that had just happened. It was so clear, and he had been so blind. Thinking he could make it through, that he could be normal. "I'm married," he whispered, and looked at Sherlock with terror. "Jesus, I'm married." It was like a smack in the face. All he had always wanted, becoming impossible because of what he had done. One tiny stupid thing he had chosen in what seemed another life. It sounded like a bad joke, and he couldn't believe any of it. He stood still, not moving away, not daring to kiss Sherlock again. Stuck. Purely stuck.  
  
_The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption_...  
It seemed ages ago.   
But no. It was there. Right _here_.  
Once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes used to be a proud man.   
"Please." he begged, his voice was barely a whisper. "Don't."  
 _Don't go there, John. Stay with me. Please. I'm begging you, I can't say the rest out loud, but you know me. I know I don't deserve it, but you can just figure out what I mean._  
He refused to let John go, holding him like he was holding onto his own life,  alcohol, sweet alcohol was making swallow everything much easier. He needed to do something, something would bring John back, he knew nothing would bring him into his life, but at least for now, in this very moment. He held John's head between his hands, caressing his cheekbones, lips. "Please." he repeated again, his throat dry. He could imagine the awful scenerio that was building in John's head. Talking wouldn't work right now, not for them, again, they weren't... like that.   
With a sudden decision Sherlock buried his face between his shoulder and neck, nuzzling into it, smelling, feeling. Minutes later "I... know you can't. Just for tonight?" he asked quietely without seperating his face from John's shoulder.  
  
John frowned, eyes shut again, and held him tighter. He nuzzled in his chest, close to his neck, still not putting kisses there. It was absurd, since he had already kissed his lips plenty, but maybe there was a way to stop this, if he really convinced himself he wanted to. "You're drunk," he swallowed and said, his voice falsely more assured and tone strict. "I won't take advantage of that, Sherlock. You probably don't really know what you want." But still he stroked his hair and didn't try to go away. He wanted to agree. To just say "Okay" and kiss him again, spend the night in his arms, knowing this was all the time they'd have. Sherlock was giving him such a tempting offer, and yet, he had to say no. For the drunk, destroyed friend he had in his arms, for the little respect he still had for his wife, and for his unborn baby. Becoming an adulterer, tear Sherlock apart a bit more, and welcoming his child in a broken home. That couldn't be the way things would go. There had to be some escape, they had to find _something_... But if they couldn't, would he agree? "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm the one that did this to you, didn't I? The panic attacks, the drinking, the drugs. It's not only because of Magnussen. If I had stayed, really stayed. If I hadn't bring Mary into the equation, you wouldn't be…" The words got strangled on their way and he stopped talking. Tried to stop thinking, too, but unsuccessfully.  
  
_Strong moral principles as always_ , Sherlock thought. Also he was right, in a way, even Sherlock couldn't fathom what he was actually asking from John. Sex? Love? Compassion? Mercy? It was complicated, far too complicated for his drunk mind. He could do nothing but holding John back as he continued speaking, blaming himself.   
"No." Sherlock protested with a weak voice. "No, you didn't do anything, no..." He blamed people for _this_ , for who he was. His parents, Mycroft, Victor, Redbeard, himself... But not John. Never. He was The Vitruvian Man. The perfect human. He kept nuzzling into John's neck, inhaling his scent, the man he loved and admired most in the world.   
"Stay." he managed to say after long minutes. "Just... stay. Tonight. We don't have to. We could just... sleep." Yes. Sleeping. In John's arms. That would do. For now. Nothing would be more enough when it came to John, but that could do. Just having John's kindness, warmth with him for a couple hours. "Please?" he asked, murmuring. " _Please, please, please..._ "   
  
He shouldn't. He shouldn't, God damn. If his wife knew he'd spend the night in his best friend's bed… But he wanted so much more. Allowing himself this, only this, seemed like nothing in comparison. "Alright," he answered and stroke Sherlock's hair in a soothing gesture. "Seems good." They parted just a bit so he could look at this face again, caressed this cheek, calming the panicked man down. "Look at you, you're exhausted," he murmured, watching him. "You didn't sleep in, what? Five days, a week?" He touched the shadows under Sherlock's eyes and bit his lip, still sure this was his fault somehow. Then climbed on his tiptoes to put another kiss on his lips. He was doing this. If they had decided the night would be theirs, he'd express everything he wanted to express. The caring, the worry, the craving of his touch and warmth. "Come on," he asked against his lips and intertwined their fingers. He leaded him to his bedroom, not turning on the lights. Took off his shoes, trousers and jumper, just to stay in his tank top and boxers. Then sat on the bed and opened his arms, waiting for Sherlock to curl up with him.  
  
Sherlock leaned into John's touch, feeling has hand caressing his hair, face. God, if he knew it before, if he had an idea, even a glimpse of it, that something like this existed... But it was too late, wasn't it?  
"A week. Maybe. I... 'S fine." he murmured, even though it was a rhetorical question, probably, he was too close to John to care. He sighed as John placed another kiss onto his lips, so, they were doing this. Maybe something more would never happen, or they would never be partners in life again, but now, in that very moment, they were going to bed as two lovers. He followed John without thinking, he would go anywhere for John, with John. He watched John getting undressed in the dark, his lips parted, sight wasn't clear but his motions were visible. John was here. In his room. In his bed.  
He accepted invitation and laid by John slowly, he was feeling ridiculously shy. And broken, and in love, and so many other things. He bashfully got closer to John and snuggled between his arms.  
  
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, his hands in Sherlock's hair, on Sherlock's back, and they both cuddled under the cover. As close as possible, trying to be one, but it was never enough. Because the sunset would stop everything, John closed his eyes and nuzzled into Sherlock's locks, putting kisses on his skull. The words were on the tip of his tongue, he'd almost say them. I love you, it was so easy and so destructive. But instead he whispered : "It's okay," his mouth against his friend's temple and jaw, then taking these lips too. He was getting drunk on kisses, high on this smell and warmth, and he wanted to let go too, to be weak and scared and desperate, if that only meant staying here in the dark. "It's okay," he said again, and maybe he voice broke, and maybe he inhaled too sharply for it not to sound like a sob, but he kept on kissing Sherlock, because that was all that mattered right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are more than welcomed :)  
> John was played by the stranger, who was writing outstandingly. Seriously, I really admire them. So all credits belong to them.


End file.
